


it's only ever been you

by lovebender



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Gwen (Merlin), Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, Lesbian Morgana (Merlin), Nightmares, Pining, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebender/pseuds/lovebender
Summary: “I’ve changed my mind about the orange juice.”Merlin lets out an indigent grumble; because not even the fact that Morgana is going through an emotional crisis is enough to deter him in his pettiness. “Not worried about it being poisoned anymore, are you?”“It wouldn’t be anything she isn’t used to,” Arthur assures, with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Betrayal and resentment for breakfast? Mm. Just like father used to make.”His boyfriend dutifully huffs a laugh.Ignoring them, Morgana takes a sip from the glass that has been thrust into her trembling hands. Her breath feels short. Her head swims. Still, she lifts her chin and meets their expectant eyes.Well, shit. There’s no escaping it now.“I’m dating Gwen, aren’t I?”Five times Morgana couldn't figure out who the hell Gwen is dating, and the one time she realised it might be her. She, of course, blames it all on Uther.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 253





	it's only ever been you

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! my name is gia, and i've managed to go through the past 12 years of my life without knowing anything about bbc merlin. then the quarantine came around, so i finally watched it, and quickly fell head over heels in love with both gwen and morgana. this fic is a 14k words worth manifestation of those feelings.
> 
> i've had a bunch of fun while writing this, and i hope that you'll have at least half as much while reading!! <3 it's rated teen for implied sexual content and drinking, but nothing explicit or graphic happens in the actual story.
> 
> i've also made a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs_v13Ha6BMeiIHFvXbpy2aVmSxRSnGfj) and a [moodboard](https://pin.it/5VOt1dW), both of which you can check out by clicking on the links :-)
> 
> happy reading!

If Morgana is ever asked to tell this story, she’ll most certainly start off by clarifying that it was entirely Uther’s fault.

At least, at the very root of it all.

Such a conclusion really shouldn't be considered surprising. Year after year, her experience has continued to show that most unfortunate things in her life can, indeed, be traced back to Uther’s parenting methods. 

Or simply to his general existence. 

And considering the plentiful evidence proving that Arthur is also very much Like That (as demonstrated by him considering “pulling at piggy tails” to be an acceptable flirting method at the age of twenty), Morgana thinks there is a clear pattern here. 

The aforementioned pattern being that, as efficient as they might be in other areas, the Pendragon siblings are decidedly _not_ very good at the romance department. 

It would seem that growing up as a sheltered, repressed rich kid is likely to turn you into a sheltered, repressed adult—rich or not. 

Who knew? 

And as though her parentage isn’t a burden enough (and trust her, it truly is), there is also the fact that Morgana is attracted to women.

That by itself isn’t a problem, because women are wonderful. But even once you’ve looked past Uther’s outdated opinions on the matter (which Morgana generally has no problem doing), the fact that female friendships are unnecessarily difficult to understand still remains.You _think_ that a girl is flirting with you, with all the lingering touches and gentle words, but then it turns out that she’s straight, and only ever hung out with you in order to get closer to your idiot brother. 

Morgana found this out the hard way.

Evidentially. 

After the breakup with her first girlfriend who, as it had turned out, was never actually her girlfriend, Morgana swore (as solemnly as only a heartbroken fourteen-year-old could) to take these things much slower in the future. 

Nearly seven years later, she stayed true to her word. 

But that’s not how this story starts. 

This story starts at the beginning of a new school year, when the weather was still far too hot for focusing on uni—and certainly far too hot for hauling massive cardboard boxes up the stairs, and into Morgana’s climatised apartment. 

Still, that was precisely what she found herself doing. 

Because...

Well. 

Because Gwen. 

The one perk Morgana was supposed to gain from the entire _“_ sheltered, repressed rich kid” deal was the exciting possibility of living on her own once she starts attending uni. And she did, for the first two years. But then the beginning of her third year left Arthur’s roommate-slash-boyfriend’s best friend without a roommate of her own, and—by extension—without a place to live. 

(Yes, roommate-slash- _boyfriend_. How the whole “piggy tail pulling” thing worked out for him is still beyond her, but that’s a story for another time.) 

Fortunately for all involved, Morgana is nothing if not kind and compassionate. 

That, and a huge sucker for pretty girls in pastel summer-dresses. 

Be as it may, she graciously invited Arthur’s roommate-slash-boyfriend’s best friend to move in with her, for reasons entirely unrelated to her adorable pink attire. 

Her generosity also certainlyhad nothing to do with the cute smile Gwen Smith wore during each one of their encounters, no matter how stressful the exam season. Nor was it affected by the fact that Morgana has been longingly gazing somewhere in her general direction all through these past two years. 

Not that Morgana was complaining about having a roommate. 

Because again. 

_Gwen._

She is quite sure that nobody could, or should, for that matter, complain about Gwen. Not in good consciousness. Not without Morgana herself appearing at their door, and kindly informing them to shove whatever it is they have to say right up their arse. 

This all becomes understandable once you learn that Gwen—short of Guinevere, because of course she’d have a name fit for a princess—is very possibly the loveliest person Morgana has ever had the pleasure of meeting. She is funny, and clever, and incredibly sweet, without being afraid to call out nonsense when she sees it.

Besides, she actually _cleans up after herself_.

For anyone who has had the displeasure of growing up in the same house as Arthur Pendragon, no matter how large the estate, that itself is worth being held in high esteem. 

Also, that pink dress. 

But, alas. Gwen is straight; and no matter how lovely she might be, Morgana isn’t going to break the promise she made to her fourteen-year-old self by falling for a straight girl at the age of twenty. 

Or she’ll at least refuse to admit it. 

It’s a warm day two weeks into their roommate arrangement when it first happens. 

Morgana is sitting at their kitchen table, desperately trying to will her essay to magically write itself. Her nightmares were especially bad last night, and although she’s being perfectly graceful about it, she will privately admit that she’s only seconds away from smashing her laptop in sleep deprivation-induced rage. 

That is when Gwen walks through the door, sweet summer breeze following her in. Or perhaps Morgana is just so sleepy she’s beginning to hallucinate. 

Guinevere would make a wonderful vision, though: with a loose white blouse, soft curls, and a bouquet of lilac flowers held in her left hand. She might as well be the subject of Morgana’s dreams—if only they were ever half as pleasant. 

“Hello,” Morgana greets, a smile reigning supreme over her previous foul mood. 

“Hello,” Gwen parrots, holding out the flowers. “I picked these for you.” 

Heavens above. Morgana thinks she just might melt on the spot. She carefully takes the flowers into her own hands, all the while smiling like a bumbling fool. 

“For me?” She asks, despite the fact that Gwen had just said so.

Arthur would tease her about it, no doubt, with one of those god-awful impressions of her voice ready at a blink of an eye. But he isn’t here, so screw him. She will be as hopeless as she likes. 

(Besides, he was the one who always came out of those impressions clutching his arm in pain, having received a particularly sharp elbow-to-biceps hit.) 

The other girl only nods, satisfied with the apparent improvement in Morgana’s demeanour. 

“I know you haven’t been sleeping well, and I thought that they might cheer you up. At least until I can find a better way to help,” She halts then, blushing slightly. “That is- I don’t mean to imply- I am not saying that _I_ will help you sleep... Not that I wouldn’t like to! I would. I just didn’t mean it like _that_ -” 

Morgana allows her to fumble for a bit longer, because she’s rather cute whenever it happens. Then, having placed the flowers into a vase, she lifts her head and interrupts Gwen’s rambling with a smile she’s sure is just a touch too adoring. 

Certainly, too adoring for it to be considered platonic. 

“Thank you.” She says. And then, because she really has no sense of moderation _or_ self-preservation, she adds: “Your company alone is enough to cheer me up.” 

Gwen looks at the ground, bashful. Her smile is glowing, though, which is how Morgana knows that the confession had been worth the embarrassment it caused her. 

Guinevere tucks an escaped curl back behind her ear and sways on the heels of her feet. 

“Well...If you’re still up for some company at around six, perhaps we could go out? Have some ice-cream?” 

Now, there are a few reasons as to why Morgana doesn’t think too much of this invite. 

The first one goes back to the whole “sheltered, repressed rich kid" thing, because, as she has said before, most things do.

She didn’t have all that many close friends whilst growing up, but whenever Leon asked if she was free to go out, it had always been an invitation to nothing more than a simple hang out—or, when they were younger, kicking his and Arthur’s arse in a wooden sword fight. 

The second one has to do with the fact that, despite living together for two weeks, and knowing each other for a good while longer, Gwen and Morgana rarely ever hung out outside of their apartment, and never without the company of their mutual friends. That considered, it really wouldn’t be so strange if Gwen just wanted to hang out somewhere other than their living quarters; even if she still _did_ seem slightly amazed by them. 

(“I just had the first proper hot shower since I left home. I’m never leaving this place.” Gwen had said, phoning her brother on the first night she moved in.)

(She apologized for fogging up all the mirrors once she was done, but Morgana took one look at her—wrapped up in Morgana’s white towel and smelling of Morgana’s cherry blossom shampoo—and decided that she never wants Gwen to leave this place, either.) 

The third reason, and perhaps the most convincing one, would be the knowledge that Gwen is tragically straight, and therefore awfully unattainable. 

Which is why, after offering a delighted: “Of course!” as her answer, Morgana doesn’t think she agreed to anything overly significant. At least, nothing other than inevitably falling for her housemate. 

That, as she will soon learn, is her first mistake. 

\- 

That evening, at six on the dot, the two of them enter an elegant dessert shop situated not too far from their apartment. There is a lovely sitting area outside, and Morgana can’t help but think that they must have added this pretty orchard solely so that Gwen could sit underneath it in her blue corset decorated with hand embroidery. 

Once they've already settled down, Morgana delicately wipes her mouth with her napkin, before smoothing it back down on her lap. Gwen grants this with a tiny snort.

Morgana raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“What’s so amusing?” 

“Oh, nothing, my lady,” Gwen says, though she isn’t even attempting to hide her grin. “Your table manners are just terribly posh.” 

Morgana does not blush at the title, thank you _very_ much. 

Instead, she lifts her chin defyingly, and raises to the challenge. 

“I can hardly recall you complaining about how posh my shower was,” She smirks, “Especially not when you used up all the hot water.” 

Gwen’s cheeks heat up, but her eyes glint mischievously. “I never did say I was complaining.” 

And, well, Morgana doesn’t quite know what to make of that comment. She knows what to make of the way Gwen is watching her even less, so she responds by raising her glass, and managing an awkward: “Cheers.” 

Gwen’s lips quirk in amusement, but she makes no further comments. 

From behind her drink, Morgana watches her friend sip her strawberry smoothie. Seeing her here, in the pink skies of a late summer evening, crowned by flowers and sunshine, Morgana can’t help but think it’s quite silly that Guinevere was the one calling _her_ a lady. She’s far more graceful and noble than any rich girl Morgana has ever met. Vivian, for all of her stunning silks and private tutors, doesn’t have half the poise that Gwen carries in her little finger. 

“Careful, though,” Morgana muses, instead of voicing her actual thoughts—because repressed rich kids will be repressed, and all that, “I might start thinking you’re just using me for an access to my bathroom.” 

_Our_ bathroom, she means to say, but she’s afraid of what her voice would sound like if she did. And they’ve been getting along swimmingly so far, so it would really be a shame to go and ruin it now. Especially with something as irksome as _feelings_. 

Gwen grins, and it’s a small, playful thing: making it clear that her next words will be a joke. 

“Not _just_ your bathroom. You’re also rather easy on the eyes.” 

And then she sips her smoothie again, as though she’s not at all bothered by—or responsible for—Morgana’s heart nearly flying out of her chest. 

“Uhm,” She says, before she can stop herself. 

Gwen looks up, as though she has only just realised what she had said. 

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—Well, obviously, I think you’re gorgeous, but I’m not— It was a joke. I’m not a gold digger or anything, I promise.” 

Morgana shakes her head. Pulls herself together. Smiles in encouragement. 

“No, no. It’s quite alright.” 

She thinks she got the message, though. 

Morgana knew of Gwen’s preferences already. That doesn’t make the sting of disappointment in her chest any easier to bear. 

But, straight or not, Gwen seemed comfortable with complimenting Morgana right up until Morgana acted weird about it, like the pining disaster she is. So, Morgana thinks, maybe if she can joke back, and make it clear that she is unbothered by such jests, they will be able to go back to their previous banter. 

“Really, it’s fine,” She informs her, in a tone she hopes qualifies as reassuring. “I’ll gladly share the shower with you.” 

Looking back, not realising the way this sentence sounded to anyone but herself had probably been her second mistake. 

Or third. 

Fourth? 

Who’s counting anymore, really. 

Gwen, though, most definitely realised.

That is, at least, if the fact that she jerked her head up so suddenly she spilled her smoothie over her dress is anything to go off of. 

“Oh my,” Morgana says, oblivious as to what caused such a reaction. 

“Sorry!” 

“You really must stop apologizing,” She notes, gently. 

“Right,” Gwen agrees, “Sorry.” 

Blinking at her, Morgana huffs a laugh. 

“I’ve never met someone who apologizes for spilling a drink over their own dress,” She teases, but the tone of her voice is nothing if not fond. 

“Ah, and for a reason!” Gwen grins, “I am one of a kind.” 

She had clearly said it as a joke, but the word: “True,” is out of Morgana’s mouth before she can stop herself, sounding far too genuine to be a friendly jest. She clears her throat, embarrassed, “Um. Perhaps you should clean that up?” 

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Gwen agrees, a brilliant smile still firm on her face, “Try not to miss me too much.” 

Morgana can’t make any promises, so she opts to stay quiet. 

She is quite so busy with replaying their conversation in her head, she nearly fails to take notice of the man making his way to their table in confident strides, just as Guinevere disappears behind the washroom door. 

Nearly. 

Morgana turns in her seat, locking her eyes with the newcomer. 

“Can I help you?” She asks, in a tone that she likes to think clearly implies she isn’t actually feeling particularly helpful. 

The man, however, smiles as though she has given him the warmest of welcomes. 

“The name’s Gwaine,” He says, before holding his hands up in mock surrender at the cold stare she sends his way. “I won’t bother much, I promise.” 

He pauses for a bit, as though he’s waiting for her to allow him to continue. She grants him a slight nod of her head, and so he does. 

“Gwen and I have a few classes together this year.” 

Oh dear. 

“Good for you.” Is what she settles on. “She is a wonderful company to have in a classroom.” 

“I agree,” The bloke says, and Morgana isn’t too happy with the studying look he sends her way. “So, you can understand why I was wondering if it would be appropriate for me to make a move?” 

_Is she dating anyone_ , is the question he is actually asking. 

Morgana takes the moment to assess him a bit more carefully. Tall, confident posture, with long, flowing hair. Handsome, in a way she doesn’t care to notice, but knows that many women do. He looks every bit like one of those rough, tough, save the world kind of men; and if the short-term crush Guinevere had on Arthur back in their first year is anything to by...Well, then that is exactly her type, and this man fits it perfectly. 

Screw him for that, honestly. 

“I fear that’s a question only Gwen can answer,” Morgana finally concludes. If Gwaine notices the way she’s stabbing her cake with far more force than strictly necessary, he refrains from commenting. Which, given the fact she’s wielding a fork, is a smart move on his behalf. “Though I can’t say I see the harm in asking her.” 

Other than the fact that Gwen saying yes—which she very well might—would likely put Morgana into one of her capital M moods. And it’s a well-known fact that when Morgana is in a Mood, it usually doesn’t end well for anyone involved. 

But whatever. She’s trying to be selfless here, and she can deal with the aftermath of her altruism later. Probably. 

Or, more likely, let Merlin deal with it—preferably by treating her to hot cocoa made after Gaius's secret recipe. 

It’s a foolproof heartbreak remedy, really. 

Gwaine hums. 

“Good to know.” 

“I’m certain it is,” Morgana says, lips pressed into a tight grin. Then she clears her throat—a clear cue for him to take his leave. She will try her best to be happy for Gwen, genuinely. But that still doesn’t mean she has to fancy it. “Will that be all, then? You’re blocking the sun.” 

“Am I?” He muses, very well aware of the fact that the sun has mostly gone down by now. But he must at least vaguely understand the bitterness behind her smile, because he immediately follows it up with: “Well, I’ll best be on my way then.” 

He retreats, and Gwen soon re-joins her at the table, proudly showcasing her once again clean bodice. 

They talk for a while longer, and with each passing second, Morgana feels more and more foolish for ever thinking she stood a chance against falling for Gwen. Terribly sorry, fourteen-year-old Morgana, but even your stubbornness is no match to Guinevere's adorable charm. Despite the jokes she made about Morgana’s shower and telly (which is, quote-unquote, bigger than the entirety of her last room), she must be one of the most humble, down to earth people in the entire world—and when she laughs, Morgana can feel all the stars realign. 

Once they’re done with their drinks and desserts, Morgana excuses herself to the washroom, which is in truth but a poor guise for going to pay the bill. 

So, perhaps living on your own isn’t actually a “sheltered, repressed rich kid” perk. In fact, it is hardly a perk at all, in Morgana’s case; since she is slowly coming to the conclusion that she much prefers living with Gwen to the lonely alternative. 

(“As do I,” Arthur will say sometime in the future. “You get weird when you’re on your own for too long. Start acting like an evil, hermit witch in her cabin.”) 

(She will respond by hitting him with her elbow, because some things never change.) 

But the one “sheltered, repressed rich kid” perk she still has, is the ability to spoil her friends rotten. 

As she approaches the register, she can see that man from earlier in her peripheral vision. He plucks one of the flowers from the orchard, fixes his hair, and goes in. Morgana very barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Still, she decides to linger here for a bit. Be a good friend. Give them some space. 

It isn’t long, though, before Gwaine comes back, the flower still in his hand. 

Morgana tries not to celebrate too early. 

She will, however, celebrate eventually—because she’s not _that_ good of a friend. 

“How’d it go?” She inquires, hoping she doesn’t sound more curious than platonic interest would allow. But other than the previously mentioned hoping, she doesn’t do much else to cover up the fact that her curiosity is entirely non-platonic. 

Gwaine gives her a strange, studying look, and she shifts in her spot. Then, he shrugs. 

“Wasn’t interested.” 

“Oh? I’m sorry.” 

She isn’t, really. There’s no need to outright say it, though. Surely the everything else about her makes it clear enough. 

Gwaine waves it off. 

“Don’t be. I’m not afraid to try, but one has to know when it’s time to give up,” He says, rather sagely, and finishes his drink, “Besides, she said she’s seeing somebody else.” 

If Morgana wasn’t so shell-shocked by the informational contents of that statement, she would feel inclined to inform you of the fact that she very much did _not_ appreciate the tone of solidarity and warning his voice took on as he said this. 

But as it is, she’s hardly capable of forming any coherent thoughts. 

Because, yet again, Gwen. 

Because Gwen brings her flowers and teases her and wears embroidered dresses. Because Gwen has the most gorgeous curly hair, and when she washes it, it smells of Morgana’s cherry blossom shampoo. Because Gwen is waiting for her now, at their table, looking like the reason summer decided to linger this year. Because Gwen makes her do silly things, like breaking six-year-old promises, and falling far too quick. Because even if they can never date, Morgana enjoys constantly having Gwen at her side. 

Because Gwen, apparently, has a boyfriend. 

Dear God. 

Morgana might need a drink. And this time, a pink lemonade won’t cut it. 

\- 

A week passes, they hang out, and the mystery boyfriend doesn’t get brought up once. 

The first few days Morgana waits for her roommate to say something. Perhaps mention it in the passing while they’re cuddled up watching telly, or over one of their candle-lit dinners. But Gwen never does. 

That is when Morgana’s wishful thinking kicks in, and she tells herself that perhaps the boyfriend doesn’t exist after all. 

It’s easy to forget it, what with how outspoken Gwen has grown around Morgana and their mutual friends (Morgana takes special joy in her going off on Arthur when he’s being an insufferable prat), but she is actually a rather shy person. Therefore, it wouldn’t be entirely out of character for her to invent a boyfriend in order to let Gwaine down easy. 

This theory stops holding water rather quickly. 

The thing is, Gwen is very beautiful. 

One doesn’t have to be a seer to see as much. Even the birds on the branch are singing about it at this point. So, it is only a matter of time, really, before someone other than Gwaine notices this, and collects enough courage to do something about it. 

This time, Morgana is there when it happens, and the sheer level of fondness flooding Gwen’s voice when she says: “Sorry, but I’m already seeing someone.” leaves little room for Morgana’s theorising. 

“Lucky someone,” She says once the rejected lad has left the premises, and only hopes that this sounds like something a good, and not at all jealous friend might say. 

Gwen laughs softly, as though she’s in on some joke Morgana doesn’t understand. 

“Believe me, I’m the lucky one,” She says, and then that’s that. 

Two days later, Morgana waits for Gwen’s classes to end outside of the university building. They made plans to go to an art gallery that evening. There’s a ceremonial opening of some glamorous new place Uther insisted that Morgana attends, and then she, in turn, insisted that Gwen does as well. 

Partially because she thoroughly enjoys complicating things for her father, but also because she genuinely adores Gwen’s company. 

Gwen comes out of the doors soon enough, the purple dress she borrowed from Morgana fitting her like a glove.

She’s also holding on to the arm of some vaguely familiar man. 

Morgana’s pretty sure she has seen him hang around Merlin before; which doesn’t help much, because Merlin seems to be friends with everyone. This lad, though, more than the others. Lance, if her memory serves her well. He says something that makes Gwen laugh, throwing her head back as she does, and Morgana’s stomach twists in unpleasant realisation. 

Oh. 

Of course. 

Before she has time to properly angst about it, Gwen spots her across the yard. She smiles, offering Lance one last word of goodbye before rushing towards her friend—and throwing herself right into Morgana’s waiting arms. 

“Missed me so much?” 

She tries not to sounds as hopeful as she feels. 

“You have no idea,” Gwen says, “The lecture was dreadfully boring,”

She separates herself from the hug, but keeps her hands hooked around Morgana’s neck. Her eyes follow the outline of her friend’s outfit appreciatively.

“You look nice, though.” 

Which is, you know, fine. And a totally alright thing to say. Doesn’t make Morgana feel like spontaneously combusting at all. 

“Thank you. You don’t look too shabby yourself.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Morgana says, nervous, “Though I suspect it’s mostly the dress.” 

Gwen grins. 

“Oh, this old thing? Just something I stole from my roommate.” 

“Hm. She must have an amazing sense of fashion.” 

“Fine enough, I suppose,” She teases. “Don’t tell anyone, but yesterday I saw her wear a pair of trousers with a Paddington Bear print.” 

“Oi! I’ll have you know that those are a proper three in one offer.” 

“Three in one?” 

“Comfortable, fashionable, and cultural.” 

Gwen laughs, bumping their shoulders as they walk. 

Morgana’s entire side burns. 

“So,” She begins, once Gwen’s giggles have died down. “Lance and you...” 

She halts. To be perfectly frank, she isn’t entirely sure where she’s going with that question. 

“Did we ever date?” Gwen suggests, in the tone of someone who has heard this question several times before. Morgana figures that’s close enough, so she nods.

“All throughout middle school, actually. Even got married in the schoolyard once. I made my dad forge us these ridiculous quasi-rings,” She rolls her eyes at the memory. “You know how preteen relationships are.” 

Morgana nods again, out of principle, but she doesn’t actually know. Her own preteen years were made up from her lesbian awakening, rebelling against her father, and discoveries of all-black outfits, eyeliner pens and green eyeshadow looks. As a full-time gay goth with a lot of pent up rage, twelve-year-old Morgana hardly had the time for a schoolyard marriage. 

The goth thing turned out to be a phase after all, but the lesbianism and the disrespect for Uther have stuck around. 

“It was kind of funny, because we both ended up coming out just after our break-up.” 

“Ha. Right.” 

...Wait. 

“What?” 

There’s no way Morgana heard that correctly. 

Because Gwen is straight. Because there’s just _no_ _way_. 

“I know,” Gwen says, oblivious to the earth-shattering revelations going on up in poor Morgana’s head. “It sounds like something out of a movie. But apparently, before Merlin introduced Lance and me, _he_ was the one Lance had a crush on.” 

She pauses here, thinking. 

“Well, okay, if I’m being perfectly honest, I also had a crush on Merlin before Lance came along.” She bites her lip, the way she does when she catches herself going off tangent. “Anyway, we started hanging out as friends once uni started, and he told me that he’s bi. And then I told him that I was, too. Obviously.” 

“Yes,” Morgana says, as though in a trance, “Obviously.” 

She isn’t sure what’s so obvious about it.

It isn’t as though Gwen often wears jeans that she can cuff, or tuck shirts into. Did she have any bi pins that Morgana didn’t notice? Was Morgana, as a lesbian, supposed to be beyond assuming that every person is straight until proven otherwise?

She might be losing her mind a bit. 

Gwen frowns, gently taking Morgana’s hand into her own. 

“Are you alright? You don’t look too well.” 

Alright? 

There’s a lot to unpack here. Baby Merlin was a certified heartbreaker. Gwen and Lance aren’t together anymore. Gwen is bisexual. Gwen is interested in women. Morgana is a woman. And all of that still doesn’t mean anything. 

Bi or not, Gwen still has a... someone. 

Alright. 

She shakes her head, as though it’ll help her chase away any newfound hopes. 

“I’m fine, Just...tired. And a bit nervous.” 

“About seeing your father?” 

Morgana shrugs. 

“A little,” That, at least, isn’t a lie. She rolls her eyes at the mere mention of Uther. “I swear, it's always the same with that man. I’ll get upset at something he says or does, he’ll get angry and defensive, and then we’ll both explode. Then he'll call as though nothing has ever happened, faking remorse without actually apologizing or changing his behaviour.” 

Gwen winces in sympathy. 

"Like a Youtuber apology."

Morgana chuckles.

"Yes, something like that."

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It’s hardly your fault my father is a wanker.” 

“I know, but still. You’re a good person. A fair person. You deserve better.” 

She doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, when she’s angry, Morgana feels like she could set everything aflame. Like she could scream loud enough to break every window, until her voice is finally, _finally_ heard. Until her father has no choice but to acknowledge her arguments, no matter the consequences. 

In moments such as those, she’s not quite sure _what_ she deserves. 

“You do,” Gwen insists, tugging at her arm. “You deserve someone who _at least_ respects you enough to listen before passing the final judgement. And you shouldn’t feel like a bad person just because you fight for what you believe in, and what is fundamentally right.” 

Morgana watches her, gaze soft. 

“Alright.” She agrees. “But so do you, just so we’re clear. You’re one of the best people I know.” 

Gwen blushes. “I’m not-” 

“You are. If you’re going to dish it, you must also learn to take it. Those are the rules, Guinevere.” 

She smiles. 

“Very well, then.” Gwen momentarily tightens her hold on Morgana’s hand, as an act of silent support. “But it’ll all go well tonight, you’ll see.” 

Morgana hums. 

“It is what it is,” She concludes, though her tone is far from resigned. “Maybe I’ve gotten used to it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to stand up to him.” 

“And I admire that about you,” Gwen assures her. “But if you ever feel like getting away tonight, just let me know. Merlin is my best friend, after all, so I’ve gotten quite good at faking stomach aches.” 

A small, adorable smile plays in the corner of her lips, and Morgana readily returns it. 

“Faking a stomach ache? Talk about a knight in shining armour.” 

“Indeed. Faking sickness in order to get someone you care about out of an uncomfortable situation is chivalry 101.” 

_Someone you care about._

A warm, tingly feeling uncoils itself in Morgana’s chest, and travels down to her fingers. She recognizes it, as though it has always been sitting inside her. An ancient feeling; but still curious; still thrilling. Something like a summer evening in the orchard, or making the girl sitting underneath it laugh.

Something like magic. 

Once upon a time, she’d be afraid of it. 

Once upon not too long ago, it would have felt too large for her body—aching to escape from her fingertips, refusing to be controlled. But now, her fingers are intertwined with Gwen’s own. She is grounded, and the power isn’t any lesser for it. In fact, it only seems to grow. It expands somewhere inside of her, instead of escaping outwards. 

Gwen cares for her. 

Maybe not like she cares for Gwen. Maybe not the way Morgana would like her to. 

But she cares. 

And looking at her now (eyes shining with mirth, the last summer breeze in her hair), Morgana thinks that’s more than enough. 

She lets go of her hand in order to loop their arms together. 

“Enough of that. Tell me, Gwen,” Morgana says, her conspiring voice already breaking through. “How many preteen hearts did little Merlin break?” 

Gwen, the good person that she is, hesitates. 

Morgana, the evil person that _she_ is, persuades her. 

“C’mon. You know Arthur would love to hear this. And, more importantly, Merlin will hate the fact that Arthur has heard it.” 

So Gwen laughs, and talks, and Morgana listens. And she thinks that whoever has Gwen’s love must be the most powerful person in the world. 

(Right after Gwen herself.) 

\- 

Drunk Morgana is a walking hazard. 

That is not to say that she is any less dangerous when sober. But at least then it is at the expanse of those who have wronged her, and not her own self. When drunk, she is a danger, full stop. The chaos she creates does not discriminate between its’ victims. 

And tonight, it has its’ sights set on self-destruction. 

They’ve all ditched the party some time ago—though the heavy bass of the music still thumps in Morgana’s ears—and decided to go buy some water. 

Or, more accurately, Gwen and Arthur decided. And where Gwen and Arthur go, Morgana and Merlin reluctantly follow. 

“I think we could have stayed a bit longer,” Merlin complains, “I’m not _that_ tipsy.” 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, and lightly stabs his finger into his boyfriend’s shoulder. Merlin sways to the opposite side as if he has been pushed at full force. 

“You were saying?” Says Arthur, but still offers his arm for support. 

“I was saying that you’re a giant dollop-head.” Says Merlin, but still accepts the offered arm. 

Morgana, even when drunk, still holds on to her elegance with both her hands. In contrast to Merlin’s wide and unsteady movements, she stands regal and perfectly stable on her black stilettos; and unlike the slightly dishevelled looks her companions appear to be sporting (Gwen, in particular, looks very cute: with tiny curls escaping her low bun, and one of her sleeves slipping down her shoulder) Morgana seems almost magically put together. Her makeup and hair are still just as immaculate as they were when she left the flat, and by looking at her, one would never assume that she is currently intoxicated. 

Until she attempts to speak, that is. 

Then, the illusion gets irreversibly shattered. 

She stops walking right in the middle of the toiletries aisle, absolutely amazed. 

“That is a gorgeous painting,” She says, importantly. “Does anybody see a price tag?” 

Arthur snorts. Gwen covers her smile with her hand. Merlin sagely nods along. 

“...Morgs,” Gwen says, gently, as though hearing this might break Morgana’s heart. 

“Hm?” 

She still hasn’t looked away from the painting. 

“That is an ad for Pampers.” 

Morgana looks at her. Blinks. Looks back at the ad. 

“Fabulous. I’ll take three.” 

Even Gwen can’t help huffing a laugh at that. “Come,” She says, through light chuckles, “Let’s get you some water.” 

It’s a long and exhausting journey, during which they face many challenges. In the toy aisle alone, there are multiple obstacles for them to overcome. Arthur starts a plastic sword duel with a small blue-eyed boy no older than eight, gets dealt a mortal blow, and then dramatically dies in Merlin’s arms—right under the fluorescent lights of the shop. Gwen looks adequately mortified. Morgana looks strangely appeased. The boy’s father, once he finds him, looks rightfully alarmed. 

Poor soul. 

Ten minutes and one Morgana-initiated fight with another customer later, they each finally hold a water bottle in their hands. Then, not a second after their victory, an upbeat song starts playing through the speakers, and Merlin carelessly drops his bottle to the floor. 

“I love this song,” He exclaims. “Dance with me?” 

He looks right past his _very_ offended boyfriend, and offers a hand to Gwen. 

“Right,” Arthur says, sullenly, as the plastic crown on his head begins its’ slow descend. “I see how it is. I’ve been dead for no more than 15 minutes, and you’re already moving on.” 

“Dead men do not speak, sire!” Merlin gleefully shouts over the music, already in the middle of twirling a giggling Gwen. Her skirt spins around her legs in a dazzling flash of red, and the two of them jump around in an over-exaggerated representation of a waltz. Gwen dips Merlin so low that his hair nearly touches the ground, and then plants a wet kiss to his cheek while he pretends to swoon. 

Arthur tentatively looks at Morgana. 

“Should we also...?” 

“Most definitely not.” 

He sighs in relief. 

“Oh, thank God.” 

The song ends, and Merlin twirls Gwen straight into Morgana’s arms. 

“Uh,” She manages. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Gwen repeats, flushed and breathless. “Care for a spin?” 

Morgana wordlessly nods. She rests her hands on Gwen’s waist and leads them into a slow dance; completely ignoring the singer’s rather energetic crooning. Gwen smiles, but still puts her own hands on Morgana’s shoulders, not bothering to change their pace. 

“This is a very nice song. Is it a classic?” 

Gwen makes a sound as though she’s choking on a laugh. 

“I- well, I guess that you could call it that.” 

“Oh, you _definitely_ could,” Merlin’s voice comes from somewhere to their left, where he is being twirled around by Arthur. 

Morgana nods, satisfied. 

“Debussy, maybe? I don’t believe I heard this piece before.” 

“No,” Gwen says, grin nearly splitting her face. “Not him.” 

In her functioning state, Morgana could easily name all classical composers in alphabetical order. As it is, though, she struggles with naming even one. She should be able to, though. There has to be like, at least four of them to choose from. 

“Mozart?” 

“Close,” Her dance partner teases. “It’s called Cyber Sex, actually.” 

Morgana watches as her very own brother—her blood and kin—hums the next verse with an utterly deadpan expression, and something akin to astonishment shines in her eyes; much like when she saw that Pampers ad. 

Next to him, Merlin is doubled down in laughter, for reasons she doesn’t want to get into. 

“I quite like it.” She decides. 

“I’m glad,” Gwen teases, spinning away, and then back into Morgana’s arms. “I’ve always dreamed of slow dancing to this particular song with my date.” 

At the mention of Gwen’s date, a frown quickly makes its’ way to Morgana’s face. 

The other girl tilts her head, confused. 

“Hey. What’s the matter?” 

“You have a date.” She blurts out, matter-of-factly. 

Gwen looks even more confused than before. 

“I...yes?” 

“And your date is stupid,” Morgana continues, before she can stop herself, “And also irritating. Probably doesn’t even deserve you, if I’m being honest.” 

As understanding appears on Gwen’s face, so does amusement. 

“My date is stupid?” She repeats, but does not seem particularly bothered. 

Encouraged by such a reaction, Morgana carries on: “Yes. Very stupid.” And then, just so there isn’t any confusion, she adds: “I myself am rather clever, though. Just so you know.” 

Gwen laughs. 

“Are you _jealous_?” 

Morgana might be slightly jealous. She doesn’t see why Gwen has the need to point it out, though. 

“Who’s jealous?” Arthur asks. 

“Morgana.” 

“Oh, so we’re making fun of her? Nice. Who’s she jealous of?” 

A devilish smile plays in the corner of Guinevere’s lips. 

“My _date_.” 

Both Merlin and Arthur burst out laughing. 

Morgana doesn’t think it’s really all that funny. She crosses her arms before her chest, menacingly. 

“No matter,” She says, as intimidatingly as she can manage. “I could for sure take them in a fistfight.” A pause of consideration. “ _Or_ a dance battle.” 

They laugh again. 

“I love drunk Morgana.” Merlin solemnly decides, and the other two are quick to agree. 

The next morning, as she wakes up with a raging headache, Morgana is just as quick to decide the exact opposite. The more she recalls the events that took place the night prior, the greater her regret becomes, until she has no choice but to throw it out of her system. The aftertaste of bad decisions lingers in her mouth, ever as unpleasant. 

Later, leaning across the toilet with Gwen holding her hair back, she still can’t figure out just what they thought was so funny. And not asking about it, as she will find out, was probably her hundredth mistake. 

She wouldn’t know for certain, though. 

Like a true Pendragon, she has made far too many of them to count. 

\- 

Gwen is reading in her bed, waiting for Morgana to join her under the sheets. 

They do that, these days. 

Morgana would love to tell you that the reason for this arrangement is the fact that Gwen broke up with her elusive significant other (still nameless and unmentioned) after realising she has been passionately in love with her all this time, but that would be a lie. 

The truth, which is that Morgana’s nightmares have been getting progressively worse, isn’t even half as romantic. 

And, if she’s being perfectly honest, it’s also quite embarrassing. 

The first time they found themselves sharing a bed, Morgana woke up from a particularly terrible dream: Gwen’s name on her lips and cold sweat sticking to her forehead. Gwen had rushed into her room, and pressed the trembling girl to her chest. 

“It’s alright,” She whispered, running her fingers down Morgana’s back. “It was just a dream, I’m here. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

They stayed that way for a long while: Morgana’s face against Gwen’s neck. Careful hands undoing the tangles in her hair, and a soft voice whispering words of comfort in her ear. Gentle but solid, until the shaking and sobbing had stopped. 

Slowly, exhausted by the fear, Morgana felt as sleep began to creep in on her once more. 

The images still burned bright behind her eyelids: a castle swallowed by fire, and a poison burning at her throat. Cold tiles of the dungeon floor, with her wrists chained to a wall. Months spent in nothing but darkness, turning into a shadow of who she had once been. 

She couldn’t wake up like that again. She needed- 

“Shh. It’s alright; it’ll all be alright. You can sleep now.” 

Cherry blossom shampoo. Soft sleeping gown clutched in her fists. 

Gwen, cradling her in her arms; lulling her like a little child. 

“Stay,” She mumbled, in the last moments of her wakefulness. “Don’t leave me.” 

Gwen, pressing her lips behind Morgana’s ear. 

“Please.” 

It’s a tiny, nearly inaudible sound. 

Barely a sentence. Barely a whimper. 

But Gwen is listening. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

Gentle, gentle, gentle. 

“It’s okay,” She assures, “I'll always be right here with you, alright? I’ll stay.” 

And she did. 

Night after night. 

Those nights, Morgana slept better than she had in years. 

The nightmares didn’t go away, of course. Morgana supposes they never entirely will. But it still helps; waking up to someone holding her, and grounding her back to reality. 

“You’ve already done so much,” She said on the second night of their arrangement, fiddling with the edge of the bedsheets. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to-” 

“It’s no trouble,” Gwen interrupted. She had one of those determined looks in her eyes, so Morgana nodded obediently, and selfishly avoided asking what Gwen’s significant other might think of them sharing a bed. 

Not that Morgana would ever try to cross that line. 

Not that she thinks _Gwen_ would—not even if what she felt for Morgana was anything beyond friendly affection. Which it isn’t, of course. But even if it were; Gwen isn’t the type to hurt someone she cares for in such a way. She’s too fair for that; too kind. 

“You have to know that I do this gladly.” She said later, hands wrapped around Morgana’s waist, voice muffled against her neck. “How can you not know that already?” 

And really, how could Morgana ever stand a chance against tenderness such as that? Roughness she can handle—but this sharp longing is something entirely foreign. It is perhaps the most violent, unyielding feeling she has ever harboured, and yet it manifests itself only in the softest, most careful rituals. Like she has enough fire in her lungs to burn down the entire world, but instead uses it to heat up Gwen’s dinner. It’s absolutely maddening, and she can’t do anything to stop. 

As she said. Embarrassing. 

“Are you going to just loiter around, or do you plan on getting in?” 

It’s the first of many stormy nights to come: raindrops hitting the windows in a persistent crescendo as they are carried by the unforgiving wind. But then the warm light of the nightlamp reflects itself in Gwen’s teasing eyes, and Morgana feels a heat akin to that of the hottest summer afternoon. 

“Bossy,” Morgana says from where she’s leaning against the washroom door.

She sets a cool glass of water on Gwen’s nightstand, and then another on her own. Her dark hair spills across the white pillowcase as she gets into the bed, turning on her side to face Gwen. Her friend smiles down at her from behind her book, and closes it in order to mirror Morgana’s position. 

“Hi,” Morgana says, with all the giddy glee of a twelve-year child attending their very first sleepover. 

“Hello,” Gwen humours her. “We keep meeting like this.” 

“We do.” 

“Still, not nearly as often as I’d like,” There’s something playful in her tone, and Morgana can’t decipher its’ meaning. “I like your sleeping gown.” 

Gwen reaches out to touch the silky material of the other’s sleeve, and Morgana’s breath hitches. She tries her best to cover it up with a tiny chuckle. 

“Oh?” She says, “Do you plan on stealing this one as well?” 

Gwen shakes her head, grinning. 

“It’d be a shame. White suits you.” 

It’s all a bit much; Gwen’s face, soft and sleepy, so close to her own, paired with the sweet timbre of her voice. Morgana, quite understandably, has a slight short circuit. Gwen must not know what to make of her choked up silence, as she beings to tumble her way through an explanation. 

“I’m not saying that other colours _don’t_ suit you. You look perfectly lovely in everything.” 

“Ha,” Says Morgana, voice breaking. “Thanks.” And then, to elevate the tension, she adds: “Well, your second point definitely stands. I look perfectly fetching in everything.” 

Gwen doesn’t mimic her chuckle. 

Instead, she looks at Morgana with something best described as urgent adoration shining in her eyes; like when you look at a photo of an incredibly adorable kitten, and suddenly feel like you’re going to go mad unless you pet it right away. It’s a type of a restless affection that demands to be expressed. Morgana is very familiar with it. It is, after all, the same look she has sent Gwen’s way far too many times. 

And now she is the one receiving it. 

“You do,” Gwen says, like she’s speaking the simplest truth that has ever existed. Cautiously, as if in slow motion, she allows her eyes to fall onto the curve of Morgana’s lips. Her hand is still resting on Morgana’s shoulder, burning through the thin material of her sleeping gown, and if only Morgana would tilt her chin up, lean in just a little- 

The bedroom door opens, and a tiny white kitten jumps onto the bed. 

They both jerk away from their previous position. 

“Athiusa,” Gwen coos, as though nothing unusual has just happened. “How lovely of you to pay us a visit!” 

Morgana too reaches out to scratch the kitten’s chin, but her mind is very much otherwise occupied. Were they truly about to kiss, or did she simply imagine that? She nearly shakes her head at the absurdity of that question. It must have been the latter. She was foolish enough to let her wishful thinking affect her perception, and that would not happen again. 

Ever. 

They settle back under the sheets; Athiusa with her head resting on Morgana’s feet, and Gwen with her arm thrown over Morgana’s stomach. 

“Do the thing?” 

Morgana rolls her eyes for a show, but still reaches out to gently run her nails up and down Gwen’s arm. She lets out a satisfied hum, snuggling her face deeper into the pillows. 

“Anything else, my lady?” Morgana teases. 

Gwen gazes up at her with a sleepy smile, right before letting her eyes shut, and Morgana can’t help but stare. Her curly hair is spread across the pillow, her face soft and glowing. All of those years spent in posh private schools, and yet Morgana can’t find a single word that would encompass all the horrible aching in her chest as she watches the girl she loves fall asleep in her bed. 

Because this is love, isn’t it? The kind that can only come from knowing the person so fully. 

There is no point in denying that, anymore. 

“A breakfast in bed would be wonderful,” Gwen jokes, “Homemade, naturally.” 

“Naturally.” Morgana agrees. “Nothing can beat my cooking.” 

This is also a joke. An eleven-year-old with the world’s scrawniest arms could beat her cooking to a pulp in less than 10 minutes. 

“True. Nobody makes chocolate Shreddies quite as well as you.” 

“I’m afraid we’re out of those. How do you feel about breakfast smoothies and store-bought crumpets?” 

“My favourite.” 

“I bet,” Morgana smiles. “What else?” 

Gwen pulls the covers up to her chin. “Hm. I think I’d enjoy flowers.” 

“Oh, you think you’d enjoy them, do you?” 

“Yes. A big bouquet of red roses. “ 

“A bit cliché.” 

“Ah, but for a reason.” 

“Alright,” Morgana relents. “What else?” 

Here, Gwen decides to truly test the limit of her powers. 

“I want you,” A suspenseful pause. “To do the dishes.” 

Morgana snorts. 

“Nice try. But it's your turn tomorrow.” 

“It was worth the shot.” 

Morgana chuckles. Her fingers go up Gwen’s arm, trail along her shoulder, and trace the edge of her jawline. 

“What else?” 

She is already drifting off, but still opens her eyes for a second to look at Morgana. Then she closes them again, and shuffles closer until her face rests against Morgana’s shoulder. 

“Just this,” She mumbles. “I want to sleep next to you the entire day, and never get up.” 

Morgana smiles so much it hurts her cheeks. 

“And what of lunch?” 

“Lunch in bed. You bring it, of course.” 

“Getting a bit spoiled, aren’t we?” 

It’s a joke. Gwen is the furthest thing from spoiled that exists. Morgana doesn’t even expect an answer. But it still comes, whispered into the darkness of the room. She feels the words form against her shoulder, Gwen’s lips brushing against her skin. 

“I guess that’s what I get for dating a Pendragon.” 

That night, the nightmares don’t even get a chance to appear. 

\- 

Merlin and Arthur’s reactions to Morgana breaking into their apartment at 8 am, wholly unannounced (can you even announce a break-in?) are completely inappropriate. Merlin, at least, raises his head in acknowledgement—but Arthur remains totally unmoved. Which is utterly unacceptable, because she could have very well been an assassin sent to kill them, in which case they would both be dead by now. 

She would usually tell them as much, but there are currently far more pressing issues to address. 

“Arthur, are you still gay?” 

He looks up at her, blinking, but offers no response. Which was to be expected, really, because 8 am Arthur has as much wit to him as a below-average piece of cardboard. Or perhaps that’s just how he is naturally, regardless of the time. 

Merlin, though, chimes in happily and with enthusiasm. 

“I should think so,” He says, from behind their kitchen counter. “Considering what we-” 

“No. Don’t finish that sentence.” 

Merlin shrugs, and holds up a glass. 

“Orange juice?” 

She scrunches up her nose and sends him a distrustful look. Merlin throws his arms up, nearly spilling the contents of the glass in the process. 

“For the last time Morgana, I wasn’t _trying_ to poison you.” 

“That’s what they all say.” 

“Who’s _they_? And it was an accident! It’s not _my_ fault that the window cleaning liquid was the same colour as the soda you were drinking.” 

“Well, you’re the one who put it in the soda bottle, are you not?” 

Merlin opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Morgana smirks. 

“Hey, no,” He says, “Stop smirking. Just because my actions were illogical doesn’t mean they were ill-intentioned.” 

“I could have died.” 

“I hardly think that-” 

“I’m still gay,” Arthur answers, finally, no doubt as a way to put an end to their bickering. “But considering how annoying the community has been as of late, I’m seriously thinking of cancelling my subscription.” 

The way he says the word _community_ makes it perfectly clear that he means Morgana and Merlin, specifically. 

Morgana drops her purse onto their table, and herself into one of the chairs. Then, she lets out a heavy, troubled sigh. 

“I feared as much.” 

Merlin and Arthur look at each other, confused. 

“Feared?” Arthur repeats, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you being homophobic right now? Is that what’s going on?” 

“I’m an entire lesbian, you git.” 

“She’s avoiding the question.” Says Merlin. 

Morgana gives him one of her trademarked icy glares, before burying her face in her hands. Then she raises it back up, and looks at the two of them in complete and utter despair. 

“I think,” She announces. “That Gwen and Uther might be having an affair.” 

This time around, at least Arthur offers an appropriate reaction—the looks of mortification and disgust displayed on his face almost exactly mirroring how Morgana herself feels about the mentioned possibility. 

Merlin, though, only bursts out laughing. 

“Why,” Arthur chokes out, “Would you think _that.”_

_“_ Yesterday, right before she fell asleep, she said that she was dating a Pendragon. So unless we have some other siblings that we’re unaware of...” 

“I mean,” Merlin interrupts, as though he’s really considering this. “With your dad, you never do know-” 

“ _Mer_ lin.” 

Morgana sighs again, and a smile finally disappears from Merlin’s face. 

“You’re not...actually serious, are you?” 

She raises an eyebrow. 

Merlin doesn’t seem very phased, which is fair enough. He grew up around Gaius, after all. 

She takes a different approach. 

“Do I look like I’m bloody joking?”

(She does not.) 

A silence passes between them. Both men look at her like she’s the dumbest person alive. She isn’t used to being on the receiving end of this look, and she’s quickly finding out that it’s not at all pleasant. 

“Permission to poison your sister for being an oblivious idiot?” 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but permission denied.” 

Morgana frowns. “I am sitting right here.” 

Merlin clasps his hands underneath his chin like he’s about to ask the universe to smite him right here and now. “Pendragons,” He mutters, in a tone one might use when saying terrible insult. “I can’t deal with this.” 

Arthur, because he is a Pendragon himself, doesn’t really have a choice but to deal with it. He crouches down to Morgana’s eye level and sets a firm hand on her shoulder. Morgana is certain that this is meant to be comforting, but she mostly feels like she’s about to be reprimanded by her footie coach. And she never even did football. 

“Alright.” He says. “Let’s set this straight.” 

Merlin snorts, but raises his hands up in surrender when Arthur sends him a glare over his shoulder. 

“Sorry, sorry. Please, Dr Phil, do carry on.” 

Arthur flips him a bird. 

Morgana impatiently awaits his consultation. 

“Look, Morgana.” Morgana looks. “Sometimes people- sometimes you...well. And it can be hard to tell that you are—you know. All right?” 

He looks thoroughly constipated, and Morgana tells him as much. Merlin snorts again. 

“Very articulate, too.” He agrees. 

Arthur looks between the two of them angrily, before finally focusing on his sister. This time, he appears to be much more detriment. 

“Gwen told you that she’s dating a Pendragon, right?” 

They're finally getting somewhere.

Morgana nods. Gwen did do that. 

“And she said this while falling asleep in the bed the two of you share?” 

She nods again. This also did happen. 

“Now, it can’t be me, because I’m gay. And it can’t be father, because Gwen has common sense.” 

Right. Both of those are true. 

“But you are also a Pendragon, aren’t you?” 

Finally understanding where he’s going with this, Morgana furrows her eyebrows. 

“Well, yes. But we’re not-” 

“The two of you also regularly have dinner together, share clothes, buy each other flowers, and generally act like a married couple in a permanent honeymoon phase.” 

“Hey, wait a second-” 

“Do you, or do you not do that?” 

“We do. But we never—it's not like that.” She says, desperately. “We’re _friends_.” 

“You are very liberal with the term.” 

Now Morgana is the one struggling to find her words. 

“We’re not together.” She tries again. “I would _know_ if we were together.” 

“I hoped so too, but clearly not.” 

Morgana just sits there, spiralling. 

“But... She never asked me out.” 

“She did,” Merlin chimes in. “You went to a dessert shop. I, unlike you, would know. Gwen talked my ear off about it.” 

She blinks at him for nearly half a minute. He blinks back, because he’s irritating like that. 

Her and Gwen? 

Dating? 

That... is ridiculous. And outrageous. And overall impossible. 

But it also, infuriatingly, makes a whole lot of sense. 

“I’ve changed my mind about the orange juice,” Morgana says, throat suddenly gone dry. 

Merlin lets out an indigent grumble; because not even the fact that she’s going through an emotional crisis is enough to deter him in his pettiness. “Not worried about it being poisoned anymore, are you?” 

“It wouldn’t be anything she isn’t used to,” Arthur assures, with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Betrayal and resentment for breakfast? Mm. Just like father used to make.” 

His boyfriend dutifully huffs a laugh. 

Ignoring them, Morgana takes a sip from the glass that has been thrust into her trembling hands. Her breath feels short. Her head swims. Still, she lifts her chin and meets their expectant eyes. 

Well, shit. There’s no escaping it now. 

“I’m dating Gwen, aren’t I?” 

Merlin pats her head. 

She slaps his hand off. As distressed as she might be, she still can’t have her hair looking a mess. 

“You sure are,” He says, nursing his wounded hand to his chest. “You also have a very firm wrist.” 

She glares at him. Again. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Morgana turns her head to look at Arthur, who seems just about ready to exclude himself from the narrative. “Both of you.” 

“...That you have a firm wrist?” 

“Obviously _not_. That I’m-” She pauses. The words still feel strange on her tongue. “That Guinevere and I are together.” 

“We’re very sorry for assuming that you would be aware of the fact that you’re halfway to being married. In the future, we will refrain from overestimating you in such a way.” 

“Arthur?” 

“Yes?” 

“I know the date of your death.” 

He gives a firm nod. 

“Duly noted.” 

She turns the now empty glass around her hands. She isn’t quite sure how she is supposed to feel. On one hand, the knowledge that Gwen has liked her back all this time makes her feel dizzy with joy. It is simultaneously her biggest fantasy, and something she never allowed herself to entertain. 

On the other hand, though, Morgana has no idea how Gwen might react once told the truth. The thought that she had a chance, but has possibly ruined it forever, sends a cold shiver down her spine. 

“What should I do?” She asks them. 

She really should have known that would be a moot point. Seeking romance advice from Merlin and Arthur isn’t likely to get her anywhere. They flirt almost exclusively through eye contact and lifelong devotion; neither of which she has time for.

“Get her candles,” Arthur says, immediately. “A lot of them.” 

“Candles,” Morgana repeats. 

“And flowers.” He adds, with great importance. “Don’t forget about the flowers.” 

Merlin groans. Morgana gets a feeling this isn’t about her. 

“Are you ever going to let that go?” 

“No,” Arthur says, entirely serious. “But thanks for checking in.” 

Candles and flowers. Okay. She can handle that. 

She looks at Merlin, expectantly. 

He looks to his left as if hoping to find something other than air. No avail. It is rather clear that he is the one Morgana is looking for. 

“You're her best friend,” She insists. “You must know how I can make it up to her.” 

“Just be honest,” Merlin says, like it’s easy. “Talk it out.” 

“...Talk.” 

“Yes. Communicate through what you’re feeling.” 

Morgana looks at him the way a six-year-old might look at a complicated equation. 

“What.” 

Merlin lets out a truly long-suffering sigh. 

“Explain your thoughts to Gwen. Let her know where the confusion stemmed from, and let her know about your true emotions.” 

_Let Gwen know about her_ _what now_ _?_

_“_ I wasn’t aware that this situation called for extreme sports,” Morgana says, proper alarmed. 

She looks to Arthur for support, but he simply gives her a one-shoulder shrug. He always has been rubbish at having her back. 

“It’s good advice,” Arthur says, because he’s a traitor. “I tell Merlin everything.” 

“Actually, you _complain_ to me about everything.” 

Arthur looks a little insulted but has enough self-awareness not to deny it. 

Fine. 

Very well. 

Honesty. That might be a bit harder than candles and flowers, but surely she’ll be able to manage. 

...Right? 

Morgana worries her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“Gwen will forgive you,” Merlin insists. “Trust me, Morgana, she’s utterly besotted. You’re all she’s been talking about these past few weeks.” He pauses then, and fixes her with a sceptical look. “Unless you aren’t actually...” 

The thought is so unimaginable that it takes her quite a bit to understand what he’s hinting at. Once she does, though, her grey eyes widen in disbelief. 

“I am! Of course I am. I’ve liked her for so long now, I can barely remember a time where I didn’t.” 

At this, Merlin seems satisfied. 

“I figured as much.” 

Morgana frowns. 

“If you knew that we both liked each other, why did you never say anything?” 

“I thought it might be fun to see you dance around each other. Turns out, it was just sad.” 

If cold stares indeed had the power to produce a chill, Merlin would be nothing but a block of ice. 

“Merlin Emrys,” Morgana concludes. “You are my doom.” 

Merlin puts a hand to his chest, far too surprised for it to be genuine. 

“I have never done anything wrong in my life, ever.” 

“False,” Arthur’s voice carries from where he is preparing the breakfast. “Yesterday you put a red sock with the white laundry. My dress shirts are ruined forever.” 

Merlin rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, well, I’m ever so sorry, your royal pratness. Perhaps that wouldn’t happen if _someone_ did his laundry himself, for a change.” 

“But how will you ever improve?” 

“Piss off, cabbage head.” 

“Mhm. Love you.” 

“...Have you made tea?” 

“Yes.” 

“Love you too, then.” 

Arthur pours the said tea into a mug with a tiny wizard drawn on it, before adding an ungodly amount of cream and sugar. He passes it to Merlin with along with a forehead kiss, which Merlin leans into with his entire body. Arthur scrunches his nose up as he examines the contents of the mug. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff. It’s revolting.” 

His boyfriend shrugs, accepting it in his waiting hands. 

“What can I say? I like my tea how I like my men.” 

“Hot?” 

Merlin smiles over the rim of his cup, a teasing glint in his eyes. 

“I was going to say revolting, but I guess hot works too.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first to say it.” 

“That you’re revolting?” 

Arthur runs his hand through Merlin’s hair, sufficiently messing it up. 

“No, you clot-pole. The first to say that I’m hot.” 

Very humble about it, too. 

“Right, of course. Second, then?” 

Before Arthur has the chance to reply with something equally irritating as it is sickening, Morgana cuts in. 

“Second,” She confirms, “And grandma was the first.” 

“Now hang _on_ ,” 

“It' far too early for the pair of you to be all married,” Morgana complains. “Not to mention that I _still_ have no clue what to do.” 

“We told you what to do,” Says Arthur, genuinely confused as to where her worries are coming from. “Candles and flowers.” 

“And an honest conversation about your feelings and miscommunications.” 

Arthur nods. 

“Sure. And an honest...” He halts. “Uh. What Merlin said.” 

Merlin rolls his eyes, but comfortingly pats his boyfriend’s back. 

Dear God. 

Morgana slams her glass against the counter, as harshly as the fear of it crashing will allow. “Pour me another.” She demands, and Arthur obediently fills her glass. 

While sipping her juice, Morgana absently observes the two men. Arthur keeps sending affectionate stares in Merlin’s direction, while the other patters on about his latest assignment.

As Arthur runs around the kitchen to prepare their breakfast, not unlike a frazzled housewife, Morgana wonders when that change had happened. When did her brother (whose arrogance and pride could once be matched only by his nobility and courage) become the kind of person who bothers himself with cooking someone’s breakfast? The kind of person who talks about his feelings, and shows them openly? 

As if on cue, Arthur—unprompted—offers the last chocolate-covered Digestive biscuit to his boyfriend, saying that he finds it disgusting. 

It is such a lie that Morgana almost feels insulted by it. Those might very well be his favourite biscuits. Morgana knows, because she still has bruises from when they would fight over the last one as kids. 

Merlin, for his part, dopily stares at the biscuit held between his fingers. Even with all of his jabs, there is no chance of mistaking his true feelings for anything else. Morgana has never seen anyone who cherishes bickering and longing gazes as much, or as devotedly, as he does. He turns insults into a love language of a sort. 

At that moment, watching her brother be disgustingly enamoured over morning tea, Morgana decides that she can do it. She has never been bested by Arthur before, and she isn’t about to start now. If he can have a healthy, understanding relationship, then she’s going to have an even better one. She’ll start by apologising and talking to Gwen about her feelings ( _God help her_ ), and then the two of them will be beating Merlin and Arthur at charades in no time. 

It sounds like a plan that she can most definitely pull off. 

After all, if Arthur can do it, how hard could it possibly be? 

\- 

She nearly burns down their apartment. 

Twice. 

The first time, she can (and undoubtedly will) blame it on Arthur. _A lot of candles_ , he had said, so _a lot of candles_ is what she got. Now, though, she is starting to wonder if she perhaps went a little too far. Even the Asda cashier gave her an incredibly concerned look once she arrived to the register with a shopping basket full of candles and miscellaneous spices. 

To be fair to the lad, the distressed expression she wore most likely _did_ make her look as though she’s preparing for a summoning ritual, rather than a romantic dinner. 

The second time, the blame can’t be placed on anyone other than Morgana herself—though she still reckons 24Kitchen didn’t _have_ to make the whole cooking thing look so easy. False advertisement, is what that is. 

Needless to say, her first attempt ends up going straight to the bin, and the activation of fire alarms is barely avoided. 

Despite it all, she does her best to stay positive. 

Go big and nearly burn down your home; is that not how the saying goes? 

It isn’t too hard to keep an optimistic outlook. Even while she’s opening the windows to let the smoke out, Morgana finds herself humming to a catchy song she heard on the radio a couple days back. Finding out that the girl you’re in love with has feelings for you does that to a person—even when the circumstances are far less than desirable. 

She is still quite nervous, to be sure. A good portion of why the whole nearly-burning-down-her-flat business even happened is the fact that she keeps randomly abandoning whatever she’s doing in favour of pacing around the room and rehearsing the exact words she plans on saying to Gwen once she gets back. 

“Darling Gwen,” She recites, while pouring white wine into the pot of black risotto on the stove. “I cordially...No, no. That’s far too formal. Gwen. Guinevere. I sincerely-” 

A pause. Something smells off. 

Morgana turns the bottle around in her hands, and groans once she realizes it’s actually sweet lime syrup. For a brief and miserable second, she truly considers pulling an Arthur and simply ordering a DoorDash delivery. 

Then she lifts her head up, sends the pot an icy stare that would put Paul Hollywood’s to shame, and starts again. 

For the third time. 

At least she isn’t in any sort of a rush. This Saturday, just like every other, Gwen and Elyan are off visiting their father—because they’re one of those families that genuinely enjoy spending lengthy periods together and openly showing their affection. If Morgana ever hugged Arthur whilst in a public place, he would either think that she has gone mad, or that she is plotting an evil scheme that will cost him his head. 

As he should, honestly. 

She won’t even try to compare Gwen’s relationship with her father to her own. Tom does not deserve to have his name be mentioned in the same sentence as Uther’s. 

At approximately eight in the afternoon, the entire dining room is sufficiently decorated, decked out with an almost excessive amount candles and red roses—which, frankly, does not sound like a good combination, considering her recent near-fire-setting record. She turns the lights down until they’re barely on at all (because romance), and then up again (because she doesn’t want to seem presumptuous), and then back down (because she didn’t spend all that money on fifty-something candles just for them to not be seen at all). 

All in all, she thinks she did a fairly decent job at establishing the ambience. 

Soft jazz music is playing over the speakers, accompanied by the rain hitting the windows. The table is set, and the sauce turned out relatively well. All that is left is putting some tagliatelle in salted water, and even Morgana, helpless cook that she is, can manage that. 

Probably. She really doesn’t want to jinx herself by saying that. 

The food might be simpler than what she, in all of her star pupil nature, has envisioned; but she’s happy with it. The nervousness from earlier in the afternoon has turned itself into impatient excitement, and she can hardly contain it. 

This will be good, she decides. 

And then the sound of keys entering the lock echoes through the flat, and all of the nervousness comes right back, slamming into her at full force. 

“Honey, I’m home,” Gwen’s voice calls—sweetly, jokingly—as she takes off her shoes and coat by the door. She runs her fingers through the wet curls of her hair, frazzled by the rain and flushed due to the wind. Morgana quickly decides that this sight is a bit much for her, and turns back to the stove. “It’s pouring cats and dogs out there.” 

“Mhm,” Morgana mumbles, not trusting her voice enough to speak. 

Gwen walks closer, curious, and wraps her hands around the other girl’s middle. 

God. How could have Morgana missed this? There’s an unmistakable, and painfully casual, tenderness in the way they behave. It slipped into their routine so naturally, so stealthy, that they barely even noticed.

She, personally, didn’t notice at all. 

“You’re cooking?” Gwen asks, sounding equal parts thrilled and terrified. 

“I’m...certainly trying to.” 

Gwen giggles, and it tickles the skin on Morgana’s neck. 

“What is it? Not Shreddies this time, I hope?” 

Morgana shakes her head. 

“No. Tagliatelle with pesto. _Homemade_ pesto, mind you; the only sauce I can make, apparently. I’m excellent at crushing things.” 

Gwen laughs, hooking her chin against Morgana’s shoulder to get a better view of the meal. 

“It looks rather nice,” She comments, reaching out to get a taste. “I can’t believe it. Would it be illegal for you to be bad at a single thing?” 

Morgana decidedly fails to mention the other two meals that are sitting in their trash bin, and slaps the other’s hand off— thought this time she is far gentler than she had been with Merlin. 

“It won’t look so nice if you keep distracting me, you heathen. Go wait in the dining room.” 

_And make sure that the candles haven’t set it on fire since I’ve last been in there._

“Oh?” The grin is practically audible in Gwen’s voice. “Do you find me to be distracting, Gana?” 

“No.” She says, like a liar. “Currently, I’m finding you to be a nuisance.” 

Gwen hums, thoroughly unconvinced, and absentmindedly taps her finger against the other girl’s waist. 

“If you say so.” 

With that, she leans forward and presses a kiss to Morgana’s jaw. 

As Morgana splutters, very much distracted and growing progressively redder in the cheeks, Gwen uses the opportunity to swipe her finger against the pesto, licking it off with a sinful look in her eyes. 

“Scrumptious,” She says, and Morgana lightly hits her side with the stained kitchen rag that is clutched in her fist, baffled and blushing. 

Gwen only laughs. In her perception, nothing alarming has occurred. 

The meal is practically done, but when Gwen leaves the kitchen, Morgana allows herself a few minutes alone with the pasta. Just to calm down. Hopefully start breathing again. That’d be pretty grand. 

Her breath doesn’t quite return, but she’s far too restless to stand in one place. She wipes her hands off with the rag, takes the pot off of the stove, and heads to the dining room—where Gwen is taking in her surroundings with a booming grin on her pretty face. 

“I cannot believe you did all this,” She says, suddenly shy again. “You do know I was only joking yesterday, right?” 

“Yesterday?” Morgana repeats in confusion, before their late-night conversation rushes back to her mind, and her blood to her face. “Ah. Yes. I mean no. Actually, this is about something else.” 

Gwen chuckles. “You aren’t going to propose to me, are you?” 

Morgana stares, unblinking. 

Gwen’s smile falters. 

“It was- I was only kidding. Honestly. Obviously, I don’t genuinely expect you to propose anytime soon—Or at all! I’m not against it, though. Not now! But maybe sometime down the line? But—I'm not—I'm trying to say that... Oh my God.” 

Oh my God is exactly right. 

If Gwen thinks she is freaking out about this, Morgana might be going through a full-fledged panic. She rehearsed this bit. She nearly burned down the building— _twice—_ because of just how dedicatedly she had been rehearsing. And yet now, not only can she not recall her planned out speech, but she also can’t remember any words at all. 

Words, words, words. 

She has used those before, she is certain. She can do it again. Probably. 

Hopefully. 

“We need to talk.” 

There. Good work. 

Except, no, not good work at all. Not a second after those words have left her mouth, Gwen flinches as though somebody has hit her, and Morgana realises just what that must have sounded like. How wouldn’t Gwen flinch? As far as she’s aware, their relationship is as stable as a relatively new relationship can be. More importantly, Morgana knows just how much Gwen trusts her. And yet here she is, delivering a classic break up line with a stone-cold face. 

“Are you...?” 

Gwen doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. The rest of her question is perfectly understandable through her tense posture and carefully guarded expression. There is a heart-wrenching tremble in her voice, which makes Morgana want to pull her to her chest. 

“No,” She says; quickly, unthinkingly. Then, because she’s such a big fan of causing her own demise, she adds: “In truth, I wasn’t actually aware of the fact that we’re dating.” 

Instead of looking relieved upon hearing these words, Gwen only looks more troubled. She searches Morgana’s face for a sign that she’s joking. When she doesn’t find one, she slowly recoils. 

“All this time?” 

Morgana nods. Gwen looks like she might be sick. 

“So, that night, after the party...when you called my date stupid...” 

“I wasn’t aware that it was me,” Morgana admits. 

“Of course it was you,” Gwen whispers, voice breaking. “It’s only ever been you.” 

A clap of thunder rumbles through the night, and Morgana’s heart echoes the sound. 

“I’m sorry.” 

This takes Morgana by surprise.

She had fully prepared herself for anger, but not an apology. In all the scenarios she had prepared for, Gwen had never been the one apologising. 

Gwen wipes at her eyes with the end of her sleeve. 

“Sorry,” She says again, with a wet chuckle. “This is so embarrassing. I shouldn’t be crying, but it’s—just, God, I always do this, don’t I? I get way too excited, and then I allow it to carry me away. I’m sorry. You must have been so uncomfortable.” 

“No,” Says Morgana, as fervently as she can. “Never.” 

“I’ve crossed so many lines. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed!” 

“You haven’t done anything I didn’t ask you to.” 

“You didn’t ask me to kiss your neck just now.” 

“Alright,” Morgana corrects. “You haven't done anything I didn’t want you to, then. I’ve stabbed men twice your size with my heel. Trust me, Guinevere. If I had been uncomfortable, you would be painfully aware of it.” 

Gwen shakes her head. 

“I’m not sure I understand.” 

“Neither do I, to be honest. Why are you blaming yourself? You should be angry with me.” 

“Angry? With you?” Gwen repeats, bewildered. “You haven’t done _anything_ wrong. _I_ was the one who ran along with the assumption that we were both on the same page. That you,” She pauses, taking a shaky breath. “I’m the one who fooled myself into thinking you feel the same way.” 

“But could you have done that on your own?” Morgana insists. Insisting is something she knows how to do; something she’s practised in. “If I hadn’t given you all the reasons to believe that I am positively head over heels for you, would you have come to those same assumptions?” 

Gwen looks up at her. Her big brown eyes are shining with unshed tears—but there is something else in there, as well. It looks a bit too much like the hope of a girl who is afraid to have it. 

“What do you mean?” 

Her voice is careful; quiet. 

Morgana, who has been standing so far, gets to her knees before Gwen’s chair. She cusps her soft palms between her own and rubs her thumb over their joined hands, not once breaking eye contact. The entire room could burst into flames any second now, and Morgana doubts that she would even notice. That either of them would. 

“I mean that you never got the wrong impression,” She says, sheepishly. “I simply wasn’t aware that I have left an impression at all.” 

Gwen lets out a startled laugh. 

“I’m in love with you,” Morgana admits, a tentative smile spreading across her face. “I am also an oblivious idiot—and I’ve been told that we need to seriously work on our communication issues—but I think... I’m _certain_ that I’d be willing to try, if you still want me to.” 

She tightens her grip on Guinevere’s hands. 

“Please tell me you still want me to.” 

The sweetest of smiles spreads across Gwen’s face; bright enough for one to write all of those candles off as useless. 

“I do,” She says, beaming the way Morgana has never seen anyone do before. “I really, really do.” 

With that, she throws herself down do envelop Morgana into a hug, and sends the both of them tumbling to the floor. The ground is hard against Morgana's back, but she couldn’t care less. Lying like this—Gwen half on top of her, laughing into the crook of her neck—she would readily tell you that their dining room floor is the most romantic place on all of Earth’s surface. 

“I’ve sort of figured it out myself,” Morgana says, “But it wouldn’t hurt my self-esteem to hear you say it back.” 

Gwen removes herself from their position, and Morgana momentarily regrets ever speaking up. The regret, though, is short-lived; because that’s when Gwen lifts herself up on her forearms until she is leaning above Morgana, long hair tickling her face. 

“I love you.” 

She says it so earnestly that it nearly makes Morgana wish to hide her face. And she probably would have, if her inability to receive affection hadn’t been much weaker than the adoration she held for Gwen’s eyes. 

“I love you,” Gwen repeats, cupping Morgana’s face with one hand. “With all my heart.” 

Morgana looks up at her friend; her eyes, her cheekbones, her lips. The latter is where her eyes stubbornly decide to stay. Her heart thumps. Unbearable heat collects in her chest. She lifts herself on to her own forearms, desperately reaching for Gwen’s touch. 

Gwen, though, misinterprets her reaction. 

“So,” She says, slightly strained, and clears her throat. “Should we get to the pasta? I wouldn’t want it to go cold.” 

Lighting flashes through the sky. 

“Screw the pasta.” Says Morgana. 

Then, she surges forward, and finally brings their lips together. 

It isn’t much of a dramatic, cinematic kiss. She doesn’t feel as though fireworks are exploding in the background, or like the ground beneath them is shaking. If a movie scene comparison were necessary, though, their kiss would be best compared to the scenes of couples reuniting at the train station. 

Urgent and intimate and fated; kissing Guinevere feels like coming home. 

Gwen tilts Morgana’s chin up and captures her lips with equal parts desperation and gentleness—and even if the fireworks did go off, and the ground did shake, Morgana wouldn’t know to tell you about it. All she knows, and all she wants to know, is the press of Gwen’s lips against her own. She is already half sitting in Morgana’s lap, and Morgana allows her hands to wander across Gwen’s back, pulling her closer. 

Gwen breaks their kiss only for a moment, and smiles cheekily when Morgana follows after her, chasing her touch. When she kisses her again, Morgana feels that smile against her lips, and it makes it all that sweeter. 

And then, just as Gwen starts trailing kisses along her neck, Morgana’s stomach growls. 

Loudly. 

Gwen looks up at her from where she is lingering, and grins teasingly. 

“Not a word,” Morgana threatens, but she’s grinning as well. 

“I haven’t said anything.” 

“No, but you’ve been thinking it.” 

Gwen raises an eyebrow. 

“We’ve _just_ established that we can’t read each other's thoughts.” 

“No,” Morgana agrees. “Not yet.” 

“Yet?” 

“Yet. But we better get to it. I want to beat Merlin and Arthur at charades.” 

Gwen gives her a certified Gwen Look—the one where she tilts her head to the side and politely lets you know that she can’t believe what she’s hearing, and also sees right through your bullshit. 

“I don’t believe anybody can beat them,” She says. “The only time they lost was when Merlin intentionally got everything wrong to piss Arthur off. It’s...actually, a bit strange,” That, Morgana knows, is Gwen’s kind way of saying _really fucking freaky_. “Almost like they have a mental link of some sort.” 

“It’s because they share a brain cell.” Morgana quickly deduces. “Just one.” 

Gwen laughs, and Morgana thinks about how much she wants to kiss her. Then, she realises that she can actually do that now, so she leans in and does; slow and sweet and lingering. 

“What was that for?” Gwen asks when they separate, looking a bit breathless. 

Morgana shrugs, playfully. 

“You were being cute.” 

She blushes, so Morgana pecks her lips again. And again. And then her cheeks and her nose, and right above her brow. And she would have continued like that forever, if it weren’t for her traitorous stomach growling again. 

Gwen pushes her away by the shoulders with a chuckle. “Perhaps we should consider unscrewing that pasta, my lady?” 

Morgana grumbles out a sound of agreement. 

The other girl gets up, and Morgana pouts about it, but still accepts the offered hand. She is, admittedly, feeling a little peckish; and they’ll have all the time in the world for kissing later.

 _Later_ has never been Morgana’s favourite word; but now that it comes with a promise of Gwen’s embrace, the wait seems worth her while. 

“So,” Guinevere asks as she sits at the table. “Is this our first date then? Or...oh, what was it? Tenth?” 

She’s joking about it, but Morgana still feels guilty. She clears her throat, with as much grace and poise as she can collect during these trying times. 

“First. I would like to get it right, this time.” 

Gwen hums as she takes a sip of her wine. 

“Well,” She muses. “That’s a shame.” 

“How so?” 

Morgana voice immediately takes on a concerned note. 

Gwen looks her from behind her glass. 

“I don’t normally put out on the first date.” 

Morgana nearly chokes on her mouthful of pasta. Gwen only laughs, wiggling her eyebrows when she receives a light kick underneath the table, and Morgana stares at her—because she is so, so in love. 

She lets her know as much. 

And then—later that night—she shows it to her as well, light touches and limbs tangled up in silk sheets. After, Gwen rests her head on Morgana’s chest, tapping the rhythm of the rain to Morgana’s hipbone. 

“So,” She says. “Just so we’re clear; we are together now, right? We are girlfriends?” 

“Right,” Morgana responds. 

“Should I officially announce it, just in case? Have your men talk to my men and look it over?” 

Morgana gently pinches her side, and Gwen giggles as Morgana flips them over so that she is the one on top. 

“Hi.” She says. 

Gwen pushes herself up to peck her lips. 

“Hi to you too,” She responds. “It was a valid concern, you know.” 

“Mhm,” Morgana mumbles, too busy with leaving kisses along Gwen’s shoulder to form actual words. 

“And, really, I need to make sure you got it.” 

"Yes, love, I got it."

"Like, really, _really,_ got it."

This gets Morgana’s attention. She takes a moment to study Gwen's face.

Namely, the flirty quirk of her lips.

“Actually,” Morgana says, careful. “I think you might have a point.” 

Gwen arches an eyebrow. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Perhaps you should clear it up some more. Just in case.” 

A smile blooms across Gwen’s face. It cheers Morgana up better than any blossom ever could. 

“If you wish,” She says, intertwining their fingers. “Allow me to show you how to _properly_ utilise your posh shower.” 

Morgana girns again. Or maybe she never stopped.

“ _Our_ posh shower.” 

Gwen laughs and pulls her by the hand. Morgana gladly follows. 

That night, she sleeps better than ever before. 

(If Morgana is ever asked to tell this story, she’ll most certainly start off by clarifying that it was entirely Uther’s fault. All of it, except for the good bits. 

For those, Guinevere can take full credit.) 

**Author's Note:**

> you've made it!! thank you so much for giving this fic a read! if you enjoyed it even the tiniest bit, kudos and comments would be very much appreciated. comments especially make my day (even when they're nothing but keysmashes) so please don't be shy!!
> 
> if you'd like to chat w me, you can do so on my [main blog](https://lovebenders.tumblr.com/) or [tv side blog](https://bigwen.tumblr.com/) , where i mostly post about merlin! 
> 
> lots of love,
> 
> gia


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